Sera’s POV
I’ve mastered the art of invisibility.
At Valencia University, it’s a necessity. Everyone here looks like they belong—polished hair, designer sneakers, confidence that shines brighter than the fluorescent lights overhead. They don’t just study here. They own the place.
Me? I’m the scholarship girl with a squeaky backpack and thrift-store jeans. The one who slips into lecture halls early so I can sit in the back, quietly pretending I don’t exist.
It usually works.
Until today.
Dr Alden Graves, our ethics professor, strides down the aisle with a stack of midterm exams clutched in his bony hands. He looks like a man who hates his job, hates us, and maybe hates the world. His frown deepens as he starts slapping papers onto desks.
“Seventy per cent of you failed this exam,” he announces, voice sharp as a blade. “If you don’t adjust your priorities, many of you won’t recover this semester.”
The words sink into my skin like ice water. I chew my bottom lip, stomach twisting. I didn’t think I did well. My essay answers felt scattered, as if I were rambling just to fill space.
Dr Graves stops at my desk and drops my exam without even looking at me. I flip it over, heart pounding.
And then I freeze.
An A.
A big, red, glorious A scrawled across the top of the page.
My throat tightens. I blink twice, afraid it’s some mistake. But no—it’s real. I actually pulled it off.
A laugh bubbles in my chest, but I shove it down. Because this grade isn’t just a letter. It’s my lifeline. My scholarship depends on grades like this. Without it, I don’t just lose Valencia—I lose the one shot I have at building a life that’s mine.
I flatten the paper against my desk, trying to hide it. Too late.
Someone saw.
My gaze lifts, and my blood turns molten.
Dante Moretti is staring at me.
Even from three rows away, I can see the storm brewing in his grey eyes. His paper is a crumpled mess in his fist, his jaw locked so tight it could shatter. I don’t need to read the grade to know he failed.
Dante Moretti's failing is news. Failing means he might not pitch this season. No baseball, no scouts. And without baseball? He has nothing left but his family’s empire.
And the Morettis don’t run coffee shops and boutiques.
They run the city. The streets. The debts. The kind of power that makes people whisper their name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
Dante is more than a baseball star. He’s the heir to a criminal dynasty.
And right now, those grey eyes are locked on me.
Heat floods my cheeks. I rip my gaze back to my desk, pulse slamming in my ears. For a second—just a second—I let him see me.
And that second was enough.
The professor drones on about averages and extra credit, but it all blurs together. My fingers drum restlessly against my notebook. I should leave before the second class ends. Slip out before—
“Hey.”
The voice is low. Smooth. Dangerous.
I freeze. Slowly, I look up.
Dante Moretti towers over my desk, shadow falling across me. Up close, he’s bigger than he looks from afar. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, a presence that feels like it sucks all the air out of the room. His cologne is subtle, but underneath it is something sharper, darker, like smoke and steel.
“You got the A.” His tone is unreadable, but his eyes don’t blink.
I swallow. “Yeah. I guess so.”
His gaze sharpens. “You’re smart.”
It doesn’t sound like a compliment. It sounds like an accusation.
I force myself to lift my chin. “Or maybe I just studied.”
Something like a smirk tugs at his lips, slow and dangerous. “You’re going to help me.”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re going to tutor me,” he says, like it’s already been decided. “I need a passing grade. You can get me there.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Yeah, no. Not happening.”
Dante doesn’t flinch. His voice lowers, smooth as velvet but edged with steel. “Everyone has a price, Sera.”
My stomach drops. He knows my name.
I grip my pen tighter, forcing my voice not to shake. “Then find someone else. I’m not for sale.”
Silence stretches between us. Around us, the room empties, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of footsteps fading until it feels like it’s just the two of us.
Finally, his smirk deepens, slow and deliberate. “We’ll see.”
And just like that, he turns and walks away.
My knees feel weak, my pulse a frantic drumbeat.
I don’t want anything to do with Dante Moretti. Not his smirk, not his storm-grey eyes, not the dangerous empire that lurks behind his last name.
But I can’t shake the truth pressing against my ribs like a secret.
He saw me today.
And Dante Moretti is not the kind of man who forgets.